


Blackroom

by emmaliza



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Anonymous Sex, Comeplay, Hair Kink, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 23:11:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13398264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/pseuds/emmaliza
Summary: The first time he heard the rumour about a secret room in the servants' chambers, easy to access without being seen, visited nightly by a not minuscule proportion of the male staff, he assumed it was all nonsense. The commonfolk did have their way with gossip. It was not until he grew older and he heard the rumours more and more, until the stablehands seemed to whisper too loud in his presence, almost as if they wanted him to hear, that Jon started to thinking of it not as fantasy, but fact.He strips naked in a matter of fact way, then lies face-down on the bed. Some boys would go wait out in the corridors, soliciting any man who passes by, but not him. He can be patient. He has to be. He has never let any of them see his face.





	Blackroom

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I was playing around with the kink generator, got "hair fetishization + anyonymous sex."

The first time he heard the rumour about a secret room in the servants' chambers, easy to access without being seen, visited nightly by a not minuscule proportion of the male staff, he assumed it was all nonsense. The commonfolk did have their way with gossip. It was not until he grew older and he heard the rumours more and more, until the stablehands seemed to whisper too loud in his presence, almost as if they wanted him to hear, that Jon started to thinking of it not as fantasy, but fact.

He strips naked in a matter of fact way, then lies face-down on the bed. Some boys would go wait out in the corridors, soliciting any man who passes by, but not him. He can be patient. He has to be. He has never let any of them see his face.

Some nights he has to wait hours for a man to come in and use him, some night barely seconds. Tonight it takes awhile, but not too long – his thumping heart has just started to slow down when he hears the tell-tale slam of the door behind him, and it speeds back up again. “Ah, there you are.”

Jon moans and ruts into mattress beneath him. The man means nothing by 'you', his voice is rough and lowborn and utterly unfamiliar – he knows nothing of Jon, just as Jon knows nothing of him. That's half the point. Heavy footsteps plod over by his side and Jon resists the impulse to look up, to examine the man about to fuck him. He shouldn't, and perhaps moreover, he's not sure he wants to – there's a guilty thrill in being fucked by anyone, in leaving this room dripping with seed and having no idea whose it is.

Two rough, blunt fingers calloused with years of manual labour find his hole, already stretched and slicked, as Jon likes to do before coming here – he doesn't want to rely on the courtesy of these strangers. Jon moans, arching up into the touch, while the man chuckles. “Good slut,” he says and gives Jon's arse a teasing slap, making Jon's prick throb against the sheets.

The mattress sinks down as the man kneels behind him with a groan, and from the speed at which this man moves, Jon would guess he's a few years past his prime. When the man takes his cock in hand and lines it up against Jon's hole, Jon can feel his belly pushing against his back – but the man's cock also feels thick and solid, and Jon shivers at the pressure of it about to spread him open.

It's dangerously exciting, knowing so little about the men about to fuck him, having a cock sink into his hole and having no idea how much there is to take. Tonight, the gods have gifted him a large one, pushing into him for what feels like hours, and he whimpers before the man finally comes to a stop, his hole feeling impossibly full. He arches his back and feels the man's balls slap against his arse, he writhes and takes any last ounce of it that's not already inside him.

The man chuckles again. “You're a pretty thing, aren't you?” he says, his hand pushing against the small of Jon's back before he thrusts. Jon bites into the mattress so as not to scream. “Those curls of yours. Most ladies would kill for them.”

Jon moans as that cock starts to break him open properly. Sometimes he wonders if the men who come and fuck him really do know who he is – they can only identify him by his hair, but then again, his hair is fairly distinctive. Perhaps they do know, and that's why so many of them come to him, they all get off on fucking their liege's son – even though it's probably not as good for them as it would be if he was trueborn. Jon wonders, does he want them to know?

The man grasps his hair and pulls as he starts to fuck Jon properly, making him gasp and lift his hips up toward the movement, rocking back and forth so the head of that cock pushes against his sweet spot. He is not so used that there's no pain in it, but he finds he does not mind, that the ache left afterward feels satisfying, like how his arm aches after a good bout of sparring.

He does not know why it is he craves this so much, enough to come to strangers in a secret room for it. _It must be my bastard blood. By nature inclined to depravity._ But if he is, then why not give in to it? It's not like he's hurting anyone being fucked like a two-copper whore. This man certainly isn't complaining.

Sometimes he wonders what Lady Stark would think if she knew how he spends his evenings. He suspects she'd be disgusted, and terrified of him leading her trueborn babes astray. But perhaps he's wrong. Perhaps instead she'd be relieved – after all, a bastard who lets himself get fucked by all his father's men would not have much luck raising those men into an army against his trueborn brothers.

The man's hand tightens in his dark hair, Stark hair, and Jon moans again. He wants to get fucked by men he doesn't know and not have to worry about who they are afterwards, but sometimes, he can't help but imagine they are men he knows. Greyjoy comes up a lot, which is only sensible, for given how he blathers on about girls all the time it would not surprise Jon at all if secretly he was helping himself to boys behind everyone's backs.

Robb, when Jon thinks of him, is much harder to justify – Robb is so proper, so sensible, he's hardly ever even looked at a girl untowardly. Would he really fuck an anonymous boy in the servants' quarters? Queasy arousal fills Jon's belly at the thought of it, of being the target for every inch of lust the little lord Stark has ever repressed. _My brother,_ he reminds himself, but then his mind adds _half-brother_ and neither fact helps abate his longing.

One night, he even imagined it was Lord Stark himself fucking him, having found a whore to let loose upon who could not stain his reputation with a bastard. He did not know it was his own bastard he was thrusting into, and Jon has never forgiven himself for how hard he came that night.

“Oh, fuck,” the man moans in his ear as he thrusts hard and rough into Jon's hole, clearly nearing completion, and Jon mewls and clenches his hole around the length. It would be easier to come if he would simply reach down and touch himself, but instead he only ever ruts into the mattress as he lies on his belly and lets these men use him.

What does he want from them? To make him feel wanted, desired? But how can they, when they treat him so roughly and never even see his face?

The man doesn't spend inside him like Jon expects, instead he twists his hand in Jon's hair again before pulling himself out. Jon moans as his hole is left loose and empty. “Good whore,” the man mutters as Jon hears the tell-tale slapping noise of a man taking himself in hand, and then he gasps as the man releases all over his back. The load is thick and heavy, forming a hot, burning line from the cleft of his arse right up to his neck, some of it staining his black curls. He moans and ruts harder into the mattress.

He's not offered any help; he hears the door close behind him, as the man, having now finished, leaves without even a word. But it does not matter; Jon is so tightly wound he needs only to rut against the sheets a few more seconds before he spends himself with a deep, desperate groan. After, he sighs in exhaustion and lies there, sinking into a pool of his own seed. He makes no move to clean himself up – his prick, his back, or his hair.

Before long the door opens again. Jon just sighs softly as a second man climbs on top of him.

 


End file.
